


Cousin, Cousin

by Random_ag



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Aromantic & Transgender Struggle, Rants, Sad, and also hey., just check out their account they write v good stories, they are Seriously Dang Good, theyre named bertrum piedmont is a demigod and god dess titude, theyre not vital to the story but they explain the god of pleasure's struggles, this is actually linked to 2 bendy and the ink machine fanfictions by Control_Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 18:46:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17813456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: A pair of outcasts lend each other a hand.





	Cousin, Cousin

Dionysus was drunk.

 

He was always drunk, inebriated by the drink he gifted the mortals; he was supposed to be, for he was the god of wine and celebrations, and if he were sober it wouldn’t have been right.

 

But right then his shoulders were slumped and his head hung low, with his eyes almost glowing madly from the depths of his shadow.

 

The god who had never once been Hedone trembled.

 

He must have been sent to force me back into my role, he thought as the figure stumbled into the room. He most have come to make me eat my words.

He tried to stand his ground, no matter how futile it would have been. Dionysus was much stronger than he was, and would have taken what he wanted without asking. He watched him walk towards him in terror; he remained still when he surpassed him.

 

Dionysus fell heavily on the bed and curled in a pityful ball, twitching and hiccupping silently. He twisted the covers and hid his face in the mattress.

 

“Cousin,” he finally said, for ever since the god of pleasure had forsaken the name he was given he had only called him that.

 

“Cousin,” he repeated, and the arm he had trapped under his body extended to offer a feeble hand, “Make me feel.”

 

The god stayed motionless, only his head turned to the other.

 

“Cousin,” Dionysus called again, and his voice cracked, “Make me feel, please. I don’t think I can on my own.”

 

“Don’t you have your wine and leaves and fumes for that?” the god replied almost angrily.

 

“I don’t want them. I want to feel with a person. I don’t believe I’m capable on my own. Cousin, please, make me feel.”

 

“If you wish so,” and he swallowed air to give himself courage, “If you wish so, then you should stand up and take me yourself; I will not move for you, or anybody else, and I will fight with teeth and nail to keep you from your desire.”

 

“I know better than to ask you for something you’d hate.” Dionysus replied, immovable as a dead man, his hand still extended, pleading for mercy: “Cousin, please, please, make me feel.”

 

“How do you think I can, if it’s not me you’re asking for?”

 

“I am asking for you, because you have so many forms, so many more, so different from the one our king favors, and I need one, or two, or three, or all of them, no matter which you choose, but cousin, please, please, I beg you, make me feel, make me feel, I can’t feel anything. Please, please,” he repeated through tears, “Please, cousin, fix me, make me feel, make me feel. I sent poor Ariadne back to the mortals because I couldn’t feel a thing for my wife, please, I beg of you, make me feel.”

 

The god of pleasure slowly sat beside him, and with a shaking hand he began drawing gentle circles on his cousin’s back.

 

“Your horns look lovely today.” he whispered, for he knew Dionysus loved his horns despite being shamed for them and told to hide them.

 

Dionysus didn’t say a thing, but his sobs quieted a little, and his body stopped shaking and hiccupping so hard. 

The god held his numb hand and rubbed his palm with his soft fingertips.

 

“Why should I fix you? You seem to be just fine.”

 

“You’re very kind to say that.” Dionysus replied, “ But the problem is, I’m starting to think I can’t feel for a person. I don’t know if I want to - though I’m sure I wanted to, when Ariadne said she should have married me for saving her - but I couldn’t and it made her so terribly sad. I put the tiara I made for her in the stars and I feel so guilty, so guilty. It’s my fault she was unhappy, because I fear I can’t feel for her or any other person, god or mortal.”

 

“You should go to my father, then.”

 

“I don’t want to go to my uncle. He’s gentle and kind with me, bu I don’t want to. I feel like it’s odd to be around him, like I should feel something that never comes. I don’t understand him.”

 

“Then, to my sisters, perhaps.”

 

“No, no, I don’t want to. They remind me of what I people think I have control over. Over joy and laughter and being merry and such. But I don’t, and yet they believe I do, and it is so sad, because I really am starting to be sure I can’t feel. I think, I truly do think, you can help me better than anyone else.“

 

“I think your mind is too hazed for a clear judgement.”

 

“Isn’t it always? But I’m certain in my folly. You remind me of good things, cousin. Like eating good food everyday, or looking at something you just finished to make after working on it for very long. You’re good, so very good. You’re helping me right now and I can’t thank you nearly enough.”

 

“I am just talking to you.”

 

“You’re listening to my ranting and rubbing my back after I cried, and then saying you don’t believe me to be broken before trying to find a solution to my problems. It’s very pleasant, very pleasant indeed. Oh, cousin, you’re so kind.”

 

Dionysus moved slowly, readjusting himself; he laid his head on the god of pleasure’s lap, facing the room and not his body, hand still clenched in his cousin’s gentle grip.

 

“Wouldn’t it be far more pleasant,” the god suggested, “If you were in your own mad environment ?”

 

“No, no! Please let me stay here on you legs, dear cousin. I don’t need anything, just to stay here with you and speak the wine away from my head. You don’t mind, I hope? I feel much better like this than I ever did.”

 

“But you are a deity of madness and feasts. Isn’t this far too quiet for you?”

 

“No, no, it’s wonderful. It’s better than loud and crazy, better than all I have. I hate the leaves and fumes, I hate their smell and the visions they give me. I don’t want to remember the past or know the future, I want to feel, and feel quietly, like we’re doing right now. Oh, I love the quiet when I’m sober; I can hide in the woods with animals and stay put and relaxed as the hungover passes, and lay down on the grass and fall asleep by accident. But the quiet makes me awfully sad when I’m drunk, because I think of sad things.”

 

“You don’t need to…”

 

“But how could I not? I’m such a useless god. None of the others will ever claim me as their child - oh, what fun would they make of the parents of a drunkman! Celebrations would have taken place regardless of my birth, for that’s how people are; there was no need for me to exist. And what is even wine for? Quenching thirst and forgetting. There’s already water and time for those. What a stupid discovery I made.”

 

“What about the madness it brings? It is yours to cause and yours only, isn’t it!”

 

“Madness is the easiest thing to cause; mortal and gods alike drive each other mad at the drop of a hat. And what’s more, I honestly believe can’t even feel. I truly am useless. All I’ve ever done is get drunk and cut people to pieces. If I had never been born, nobody would have felt the need for me.”

 

“And just like that, you forget your Maenads? You devoted followers, who listen to your every word? Think of them! They would long for you terribly, to give them a getaway from the world trapping them!”

 

"My Maenads, my Maenads…” Dionysus sighed, his fingers curling childishly around his confidant’s knees, “Oh cousin, I am so guilty about my Maenads.”

 

“How so?”

 

“They are very sweet and very kind to serve a useless god like me. They hold rites for me and care for me and leave presents for me, even though I can’t do anything for them. I can’t even make their vines and grapes grow richer so they can have more wine, because it is Demeter who has power over them, like she has power over all crops and plants. What can I do if I don’t get tributes on my altars? Nothing; I have no terrible catastrophes to plague people into respecting me. I would just get drunk as I always do. Oh, how I wish I could get them to worship someone more useful that me. Oh, cousin, cousin dearest, I wish they would worship you.”

 

The god widened his eyes in surprise: “Why would you say that and forsake your followers? Besides, there’s much better gods out there than me…”

 

“There aren’t, cousin, there really aren’t! Oh, cousin, dear cousin, sweet cousin, you are so gentle with me. I wish my Maenads worshipped you; you would be kind to them and their rites would be as sweet as you are to me right now. And they would feel pleasure every day of their lives, doing the most mundane things, from talking to working to sleeping to eating… They would never be sad or angry or dissatisfied, but only happy and at peace. And maybe their lust would be sweeter and made by caresses and kisses, and they would show you their children with happiness in their eyes and bless you, for giving them such a gift. Oh, my dearest, sweetest, kindest cousin, you’re such a useful, wonderful god. I wish everybody worshipped you in your millions of forms.”

 

But he god of pleasure clenched his fists gently, torturing the messy hair of the Olympian laying on his lap.

 

“They’re all rotten.” he murmured, “None of them is good, none of them fits me. So long as I’ll be a god, I fear I will never feel like my real self.”

“I’m so sorry, sweet cousin, I truly am. I wish I could help you, but my wine would just make you as miserable as me, I fear.”

“My dilemma is mine only, and not yours.” assured the god, “Do not fret.”

 

Dionysus hummed softly.

 

“Becoming mortal… Is that what you wish for?”

“I believe so.”

“It sounds like a lovely idea.”

“Thank you. If only I could find a name for myself, then I’d be free.”

“It should start with B. I think it’s a letter that suits you.”

“You’re quite right. It’s a good start for a fine name.”

“Will you tell it to me, once you find it?”

“Of course I will.”

“Oh, dear cousin. I love you so greatly.”

“So you can feel, after all.”

“Yes, it seems I can.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Olympians waited and waited for Dionysus to bring Hedone back with her head bowed in shame, admitting she had been but a foolish child to go against her nature. They waited with goblets full to the brim, waited ready for a cheer and the celebration of their order being restored.

But the wine they sipped while waiting tasted as bitter as vinegar, and the horns the drunken god loved so dearly fell on their table.

 

Dionysus was the god of wine, of subversion, of the misfits, of the unwanted.

 

They remembered that too late, when the two cousins were already gone.


End file.
